


A Tale of Crows

by sseoi



Series: Oh No They Did [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Acting, Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Filming, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-11 08:22:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3320567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sseoi/pseuds/sseoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sawamura Daichi, recent alumnus of Karasuno Film School and fledging director, makes his first feature film. Unnecessary complications he encounters on set: Japan's most famous former child star, a film student with more talent and enthusiasm than brains, and a disturbingly competent and attractive producer.</p><p>What other dilemmas will both cast and crew come across? Will filming on <i>A Tale of Crows</i> be completed on time — or will it be completed at all?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place in the same universe as [#notalovestory](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2732372), but the events narrated within this story occur a few years prior. It is technically, therefore, a prequel, but both stories can be read independently of each other.

Five hours into the first day of filming, and already Kageyama Tobio has begun living up to his notorious reputation. Both the good bits and the bad.

To be fair, Sawamura Daichi can't say he's surprised. While he can safely say that he was utterly naive and ignorant at the inception of _A Tale of Crows_ , his first feature-length project, when pre-production began last year, life has been a nonstop crash course in the realities of independent filmmaking since then. Managing the personalities of his unexpectedly star-studded cast is a hurdle he's seen coming since auditions took place four months ago. 

Sadly foreseeing a problem isn't quite the same as being able to forestall it or fix it. Which is why, when a projectile of sauce-slathered okonomiyaki, hurtled with great energy by Hinata Shouyou and then expertly dodged by Kageyama, flies across the set to land on the balding pate of a lighting technician, Daichi’s reaction is to gape first and stifle laughter second.

The rest of the cast and crew appear to share Daichi’s response — either shocked into silence or hilarity — with the notable exception of Kageyama and Hinata themselves, who continue their argument without regard for the collateral damage they have inflicted. 

“Say that again!” snaps Hinata Shouyou, first-year acting student at the Karasuno Film School, currently set to make his cinematic debut in the unnamed role of Classmate #1, and already, after three takes of a single scene, well on his way to sworn enmity with Kageyama Tobio. His fists are balled at his side and there is a furious spark in his expression. It is almost possible to see small puffs of angry smoke emanating from his ears.

Kageyama Tobio, tall and thin and recently described in AERA magazine as 'Japan's most famous has-been at the tender age of 20', stares down at Hinata with an unflinching and dismissive air. "I said, I don't consider your performance necessary to the success of this film." 

For a moment, Hinata raises his clenched fists. Daichi takes a step forward, wondering if the argument is about to escalate from food fight to fisticuffs. But Hinata does not move, only speaks: "I'm going to make you _eat_ those words. You'll see." 

Instead of replying, Kageyama simply reflects Hinata's glare. Tension emanates throughout the set. The chemistry is palpable. Pity that the scene unfolding in front of the cameras has nothing to do with the storyboards or screenplay as written, even with the loosest sense of artistic interpretation applied. 

It is Sugawara Koushi who breaks the stalemate, nodding to the cameraperson to stop filming. (Belatedly Daichi realises that he's forgotten to yell 'Cut!'. Just as well for their barely-existent budget that they're shooting on digital and not celluloid.) 

“Hinata and Kageyama, we can’t have the two of you disrupting the shoot,” Sugawara tells them. They both have the decency to look abashed.

Daichi reminds himself that he is this film’s director and his job is to direct this film. “Let’s take it from the top again,” he says, giving Kageyama and Hinata a look that hopefully conveys his current feelings, which is that if they do not begin behaving like acting professionals he will have piranhas tear apart their still-living bodies and then dump the corpse remains at the bottom of the Tokyo Bay.

(Sadly, Daichi lacks the means to carry out such a threat, which is why he doesn’t verbalise it. But it’s the thought that counts.)

Even without words, the message gets through to Kageyama and Hinata. For the rest of the session they restrict themselves to hostile eye contact and occasional hurled insults. By evening, when shooting has finished for the day, Daichi is relieved and almost surprised to discover that filming is proceeding on schedule.

One day down, six weeks to go. So far, so good.

 

* * *

 

Kuroo Tetsurou arrives at the studio at 7pm, while they’re still packing up for the day.

“Sorry I couldn’t be there for the first day of filming,” he apologises, even as he moves to assist with the clean-up with gracious ease. The set remains a flurry of activity: the carpet is being vacuumed, the tripods and boom poles put away. Some of the more energetic Karasuno alumni helping with this project are even readying the equipment and props for tomorrow.

A film crew as small as theirs requires all hands on deck, including the director’s. Daichi is struggling to dismantle one of the lighting stands, a two-tiered contraption of aluminium, and can only nod in reply to Kuroo’s greeting.

“Would you like some help with that?” Kuroo asks. He places one hand on the stand, to stabilise it, and uses the other to twist a metallic pin with long clever fingers. Unlocked, the entire tripod now folds easily. 

“Thank you,” says Daichi, tipping the stand into a horizontal position and then putting it away into its protective nylon bag.

“No problems. So how did today go?”

In response Daichi shrugs. 

“Could be better, huh.” Kuroo leans down to pick up a flyaway page that has escaped someone’s copy of the script. “Tell me about it over dinner.”

It takes another twenty minutes to put everything away and lock up the place. By this time Daichi is definitely aware of his growing hunger, so it’s a good thing that the ramen shop Kuroo leads him to is only a couple of blocks away.

“Not quite the best place in town,” Kuroo says, as they enter through the narrow doorway, “but I never get tired of their shoyu broth, and it’s not too crowded on Monday evenings. Why, do you find it strange that I picked somewhere like this?”

“Sort of.” Daichi’s not totally surprised, but that’s because he hadn’t really known what to expect either. Even after five months of working together Daichi hasn’t quite got the measure of Kuroo Tetsurou. Sly and clever and helpful, yes, but those attributes were obvious at first impression.

 _A Tale of Crows_ still feels like something that happened to Daichi, an event of serendipity and sheer odd luck. Directing a feature-length film is something he’s dreamed of for the last five years. Now that it’s actually happening, though, it feels like this chance has come too soon. Like he hasn’t earned it yet, hasn’t paid his dues. Does Daichi really have the skill and experience to make a project like this succeed? 

They order their ramen and sit down at a tiny circular table. The shop premises are narrow, the metal stools small and crowded together. It requires careful arrangement of their limbs to prevent their knees from knocking against each other.

“I talked to the staff at Nekomata Studios and I have to work there Mondays through Wednesdays until the end of next month. I’ll be on-set the rest of the time, though.” 

“That’s more than I expected,” Daichi says. “We’ll manage. Suga and Ennoshita are very organised, and they seem to have most things under control. If anything comes up I’ll let you know.” 

Kuroo flashes a crooked grin. “Good to hear you’re managing. First day of filming can be chaotic and even disastrous. Not that, uh, I’d know anything about that. Of course.”

Kuroo Tetsurou is a man of many talents. Currently he is executive producer on _A Tale of Crows_ , but his resume in the entertainment industry stretches back half a decade. Back when Daichi was a high schooler in Torono dreaming of working in cinema, Kuroo was already winning student competitions with short films he’d scripted and directed.

For actual money, Kuroo also works as a screenwriter for a weeknight dramedy based on the fashion industry, _Trash Couture_. The TV series is credited with having launched the career of Kuroo’s childhood friend, founder of indie label Ksquared2 and style icon Kozume Kenma. 

Kuroo looks (and is) entirely young to have gathered this list of accomplishments. With his haphazard, imperfectly gelled hair and youthful street clothes, he could easily pass for a university or even high school student. When he speaks though, Kuroo projects an air of world-weary sophistication that seems to emphasize the gap between himself and Daichi. 

“Were there any problems with the cast?” Kuroo asks, as their ramen arrives. “We thought Kageyama might be a problem, have we seen that already?” Straight to the point as ever. Daichi suppresses a wince, but Kuroo’s sharp eyes pick up even the minor shift in his expression that comes through. “He has, hasn’t he?”

“He fought with one of the supporting actors.” Daichi reaches out for a pair of chopsticks and extricates them from the paper sleeve. “To be fair it wasn’t unprovoked.” 

“Interesting. Who?”

“Hinata Shouyou. One of my underclassmen. He gets … very enthusiastic.” 

“The short noisy one. Um, the younger short noisy one,” Kuroo clarifies, distinguishing Hinata from Nishinoya. 

“He flubbed some lines during the student cafeteria scene. Kageyama got shitty at him and they started yelling at each other. Then they started throwing food.” 

“They started a food fight. On set.”

“They did. It’s kind of funny _now_. It wasn’t at the time.” Daichi takes a sip of shoyu broth. It is excellent and fragrant.

Kuroo shakes his head. “I’ve heard plenty of rumours about Kageyama Tobio, but behaving like a six-year-old wasn’t one of them.”

“Oh, it was Hinata’s fault too, make no mistake.” 

“Do you think we made the wrong choice in casting Kageyama?”

“We didn’t,” says Daichi, absolutely certain. “He’s brilliant. Understands the script better than anyone else. Knows all his lines, perfect delivery. I’ve never seen anyone as good.” 

“I see.” Kuroo picks up a slice of hard-boiled egg with his chopsticks and pops it into his mouth. “Well, it’s too late to reverse the decision now. Guess we’ll have to make the most of the situation.” 

Kuroo says _we_ but Daichi doesn’t intend on making this Kuroo’s problem. Daichi is the one who is directing this film. It is his project, his responsibility. His opportunity. 

It is what they dreamed of, Suga and Asahi and Daichi, and he intends to see this through together. Whatever it takes.

 

* * *

 

Day 2 of filming starts smoothly. Asahi is terrified as usual, visibly shuddering with performance anxiety as he sits in the makeup chair, refusing to utter a single word until Nishinoya runs up and starts yelling at him. In the _other_ makeup chair sits Hinata, looking even more anxious. 

Twenty years old is entirely too young for an actor to begin a lifelong dependence on Valium. Daichi nods at Suga, who at once goes to Hinata’s side, patient as ever, and starts encouraging the boy to take deep breaths. 

On the opposite side of the set, the lead actor and actress of the film are going over their lines together, cool as cucumbers. Dressed and made-up and ready to go. 

Shimizu Kiyoko never fails to look immaculate no matter what, but her clothes for this scene were well chosen. Hair worn loose, with grey pearl-drop earrings and a Breton sweater worn over boot-cut jeans. Daichi will have to work hard to make sure the focus of the camera stays on Kageyama. Tanaka will no doubt be tempted to take endless close-ups of Shimizu’s eyes. 

Next to her, the taller Kageyama looks comparatively subdued and understated. On film, Kageyama Tobio’s screen presence is astonishing — audiences all over Japan can attest to that — but it’s an effect essentially invisible when meeting him in person.

Still though, Kageyama’s sheer skill and experience stand head and shoulders above the rest of the cast. Aside from chucking a plate of curry rice at Hinata’s nose yesterday, he literally hasn’t made a mistake yet. 

Now if only they can get through today without Kageyama yelling at a single crew member or fellow actor. 

The first scene doesn’t involve Hinata, and goes surprisingly well. Total number of takes needed: two. For a moment Daichi pauses to appreciate what a _good_ team he has: actors, camera crew, lighting, sound. Half of them graduated from Karasuno last month, and the other half are still film students with almost zero professional experience, but most of them are proving up to the task. 

Daichi still can’t quite get over how lucky he’s been. He doesn’t want to squander this chance. 

The second scene of the day is more complicated: a _goukon_ with all of the main cast and a few bit parts, the scene where the two male leads — Kageyama and Asahi’s characters — meet for the first time. As expected from a script co-written by Takeda-sensei, the dialogue is precise and funny, the timing crucial. 

Even after pep talks by Suga and Nishinoya, Hinata Shouyou still looks positively ill as the cameras start rolling. It’s a good thing his character _is_ meant to be nervous about meeting girls, even if Hinata’s ashen face is almost too pale for verisimilitude.

Coincidentally, Asahi’s character is also meant to look terrified of Kageyama in this scene, which means that it’s all working out. As long as nobody throws up, all the appropriate actors will look terribly, horribly anxious. 

They almost survive the first take. Almost. 

“CUUUUUT!” The shout resounds through the studio, and all the crew members stare. Not at Daichi, but at Kageyama, who has just yelled at Hinata to stop filming.

“It was _Shibuya_ you’re supposed to be visiting, not Harajuku! Shibuya! And that’s the third time you’ve messed up in ten minutes!”

Kageyama has stood up midscene and is using all of his height to glare down at Hinata. Hinata reacts quickly though, leaping up to stand on the bench where he was seated previously, pointing back at Kageyama. 

“Hey, you’re not supposed to yell cut! Only the director is supposed to yell cut!” 

The argument rapidly grows noisier. Daichi decides to call out an official, “Cut!” before taking further action. It’s not like Kageyama or Hinata are listening, but Daichi should at least maintain some semblance of authority for the sake of the rest of the film crew. 

The other cast members move away from the table where they were seated to make room for Kageyama and Hinata’s quarrel. The female actresses, Yachi Hitoka and the ever-efficient Shimizu, even collect the glasses and trays of snacks as they depart, moving all potential projectiles and thrown weapons out of the way. At least today won’t end with a food fight.

It does, however — after a good sixty seconds of noisy escalation — end with Hinata jumping onto the table in angry enthusiasm, tipping forward and landing on Kageyama, and the two actors somehow rolling off the bench and onto the floor in a tangle of limbs. 

Hinata knocks his head on the edge of the table as he goes down and Kageyama’s shirt catches on something and rips, with an audible tear of fabric. 

Daichi’s _so_ making him pay for the replacement for that outfit. 

Incredibly, even sustaining bodily injury and sartorial destruction don’t stop Hinata and Kageyama’s fight. Kageyama if anything is more enthusiastic and vicious with his verbal attacks than ever.

“You’re completely useless, you little moron,” says Kageyama, scowling up at Hinata. They’re still stuck on the floor, Hinata sprawling, limbs uncoordinated, on top of Kageyama’s torso. 

“I was trying my best! And why are you such a dick about it, anyway!” 

“You’re the one who screwed up your lines. _Again and again._ ”

Daichi puts the clipboard he is holding down on the director’s chair and steps towards the set. Before he moves though, there’s a tap on his shoulder. It’s Sugawara, who gives a wry smile and then hands Daichi a plastic bucket filled with water.

Hmm, not a bad idea. 

Kageyama and Hinata have started some sort of amateur and incompetent wrestling competition on the floor when Daichi walks up, tips his bucket upside down, and then drenches the two of them with a slosh of water. 

The silence that ensues is deeply satisfying. 

“Ahem.” Daichi hasn’t raised his voice, but it sounds loud anyway. “Are the two of you actually taking your roles in this film seriously?”

Surprisingly, that gets through to them; Daichi finds himself staring into two pairs of wide and earnest eyes, as both of them chorus, “We _are_.”

“Well you’re not showing much evidence of it,” he says. “I’m afraid I can’t tolerate this sort of crap on set.” 

He gives them a moment to absorb his words, but they don’t seem to understand the implications, still looking up at him with water-soaked and confused faces. 

Daichi makes it clear for them: “Effectively, both of you are banned from filming until you can convince me that you can work together in a professional manner. Now get cleaned up and go home.” 

It takes a few moments for the message to penetrate their skulls, and when it does they chorus again in unified alarm: “ _What?_ No!”

Ennoshita and Tanaka have already stood up in anticipation; with a signal from Daichi, they come forward. They haul the two problem children to their feet and walk them off-set. Hinata’s already yelling out words of remorse: “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I won’t do it again! Let me back on! Please!” 

Kageyama, on the other hand, is silent and stricken as he walks with Ennoshita towards the change rooms. Of course it’s not the first time in his career that child star Kageyama Tobio has been ordered off a set. 

Maybe it won’t be the last.

 

* * *

 

Daichi is feeling suitably stressed right now. It is nearly midnight and both he and Suga have just reached the apartment that they share. While Suga goes to brush his teeth, Daichi removes his shoes, takes off his bag, then flops onto the couch and thinks about how horrible the career of a filmmaker is. Being stressed out on the job is a given, but this is not the kind of stressed out a director should be feeling on the second day of filming, and _definitely_ not the kind of stressed out a director should be feeling over the petty squabbles of two of his main cast members. Somehow the memories of Kageyama and Hinata brawling earlier that afternoon keep replaying themselves in his mind, and he hadn’t had the time to really think about it until now, all alone in the silence of his living room, but suddenly he really doubts whether he’s going to be able to see the film through till the end.

See, _A Tale of Crows_ is meant to be Daichi’s first and last film. That’s how important it’s supposed to be to him. He crystallises his hopes and dreams from film school into this one film, makes a small but sincere production out of it, and then he can work for his dad’s company for the rest of his life without any regrets.

It really wasn’t meant to be anything huge at all. In his last year of college, he’d pitched the idea to one of his screenwriting teachers from Karasuno Film School — the revered Takeda Ittetsu, who at the young age of thirty-four was already starting to establish his name as one of the country’s leading scriptwriters — intending for it to be a small feature that would be a good addition to his CV. Takeda agreed to co-write the script, saying that an independent film would be an interesting detour from the many commercial films that he had written in the last few years. Then, a few weeks after that, he bumped into Shimizu Kiyoko, a childhood friend from his old hometown, at an industry workshop. They hadn’t seen each other for years, and in that time, Shimizu had earned numerous accolades for her talents in acting, both on the big and small screen. They caught up over dinner and Shimizu expressed interest in one of the roles when he mentioned that he might have difficulty trying to find actors who were willing to come on board because he wasn't able to promise the commensurate salary.

“I’ll be kind and just tell my agent that I’ll take a 5% cut of whatever profits the film makes,” she smiled.

“Shimizu,” Daichi told her very seriously, “this film is not going to make any money.”

“Well, starring in an indie is not going to hurt my reputation, whether it makes any money or not,” she parried, drinking from her glass of sparkling water.

Shortly after, just when he was starting to worry about things like logistics and budgeting, Takeda gave him a call.

“Guess who’s just agreed to help produce the film!” he exclaimed, excitement palpable over the phone. Sometimes Daichi wondered if he was even more enthusiastic about the film than Daichi himself was. “I got in touch with Kuroo Tetsurou — does executive producing for TV these days, really talented guy, very clever. You’re going to love meeting him.”

Afterwards, just days after auditions began, Yachi Hitoka turned up to try out for the role of the second male lead’s girlfriend. Under the stage name YACHI, she’d already released several EPs and singles under one of EMI Japan’s subsidiaries. Magazines had touted her as the quirky, captivating indie folk answer to Kyary Pamyu Pamyu, and even Tsukishima Kei, one of Japanese radio’s most critical DJs, had named her as one of his favourite musical acts.

“S-shimizu-senpai told me to come and give this a try!” she stuttered nervously, while Daichi and Suga — the only two crew members who had the time to oversee the auditions then — gaped incredulously at her. "Please take care of me!"

And _then_ , to top that all off, one Kageyama Tobio auditioned for the role of the male lead. _Everyone_ in Japan knows who Kageyama Tobio is. From the ages of seven to seventeen, he acted as the adorable Nakagawa Shouta, the sole child star on the set of _Welcome to the Nakagawa Family_ , one of NHK's longest-running sitcoms. Precocious and overwhelmingly talented, he won the hearts of housewives and elementary schoolgirls alike, earning the title of “Nation’s Little Brother” in the process — until, on a set of a historical drama he was cast in just a few months after _Nakagawa_ ended its run, he threw the most fantastical temper tantrum and pissed the director off. Blind items in tabloids started to expose his childish behaviour on set, and a few veteran actors who’d worked with him on _Nakagawa_ even testified (anonymously, of course) as to his burgeoning ego. Since then, he hadn’t had any opportunities to work onscreen for three years.

“Daichi, it’s _Kageyama Tobio_ ,” Suga whispered as they watched Kageyama act opposite another of the auditionees, delivery of the lines smooth and fluid after just half an hour with the script. “We can’t afford to pass him up.”

And so it ended up that Daichi was quite possibly the most inexperienced director to ever accidentally work with some of the most experienced and talented people in the entire industry.

Sure, they’ve made short films before: dozens of them. Suga’s been walking around with a camcorder since his parents gave him one for his fourteenth birthday, and he and Daichi started writing scripts together even earlier than that — as early as elementary school, if you count the skits they prepared for school performance evenings. They met Tanaka Ryuunosuke and Azumane Asahi in high school, and later on, when they all ended up at Karasuno together in Tokyo, they met Nishinoya Yuu — a small brilliant actor who already had a series of minor roles in commercials and TV shows on his resume. 

It’s been their cumulative shared enthusiasm that has got Daichi this far. He has some faith in his own imagination and directorial vision and ability to lead a team, but honestly, if he were doing this on his own, he might have given up long ago. Even after being in Tokyo for four years he still gets asked by his mother, every phone conversation, when he’s planning to come home and take over the family business. At times, when he’s just paid his bills and contemplated his bank account balance, he’s wanted to tell his mother, “Soon.” 

But that was before _A Tale of Crows_ happened. Daichi's barely-existent career isn't the only one at stake now. He’s got to see this film through to the bitter end — not just for his friends, who’ve been with him and shared the same vision for all the long years that they’ve been in school together till now, but also for the underclassmen who are helping out without any expectation of remuneration, and for Takeda-sensei and Shimizu, who had so graciously offered to help and also roped in so much talent to work on the film for his sake. He can’t let them all down now, now that everything has been set into motion. He’ll have to worry about things like profits and payouts later. Right now, he has to pull himself together and take care of the problems at hand.

“You can wash up now,” Suga says, emerging from the bathroom and interrupting Daichi’s train of thought before he spaces out completely with worry. “Should we wake up earlier tomorrow to look over the filming schedule again?”

“Yeah. We’ve got to do that,” Daichi replies. He rubs his eyes and gets up from the couch. After he takes a quick shower, he’ll invest all his energy into getting as much as sleep as he can. It’s going to be one long day after another from here on out.


	2. Chapter 2

As planned, Daichi’s alarm goes off at 4 a.m., flooding his room with the sonorous timbre of bells pealing. Daichi’s hand reaches out for the snooze button before some half-asleep but anxious part of his brain reminds him that snoozing is not an option today. With their male lead actor and a major supporting actor now off-duty, the entire filming schedule will need to be rewritten in order to avoid a major budget blowout. 

And the only time he and Suga have to accomplish this task of planning is this morning, before the cast and crew gather at the studio at 8 a.m. 

He stumbles out of his room and into the bathroom to splash his face with water. When he emerges, Suga is already awake and in the kitchen, grinding coffee beans. The kettle has been put on to boil. Daichi locates the French press and within minutes they have two cups of warm, aromatic coffee. They sit at the dining table and gather their tools together. A whiteboard with markers in four colours. Two copies of their script, highlighted and annotated extensively. Two Ipads. Their old filming schedule, painstakingly drawn up and now unusable. 

“We need to mark out all the scenes that don’t involve Kageyama or Hinata,” says Daichi.

“That’s … not a lot of scenes,” Suga says, visibly dismayed.

“We should be able to get five or six days of filming done without them.” Daichi uncaps a fluorescent green highlighter and starts leafing through his copy of the script. “Hopefully they’ll come around before the week is up.” 

“Hinata seemed quite remorseful already,” says Suga, reaching for his own stack of coloured pens. “I’m sure he’s ready to apologise as it is.” 

“Well, it’s true that Kageyama is more provocative than he is, but Hinata does his own share of escalation. I can’t accept just a surface or token apology. Unless they’re committed to doing what it takes to see this film succeed, we’ll end up in exactly the same situation again and again.” 

“Guess the rumours about Kageyama were entirely true, huh?” 

“One hundred percent.” 

“He’s brilliant.”

Trust Suga to focus on the positive aspects of Kageyama’s reputation. Daichi shakes his head, says: “Brilliant and an idiot. Maybe I should make him sweep the set every time he acts like a little shit.” 

“Not a bad idea,” muses Suga. “He really might quit the cast if we did that, though.” 

“I don’t think he will,” says Daichi, even though deep down he’s not sure. “He needs this role. Why else bother auditioning for an indie film with a no-name director?”

“It’s true he hasn’t worked in years. Pity though. It’s a waste of talent. And he’s an incredible asset to our film. _If_ we can get him to pull his head in.”

“I’ll talk to him.” Daichi thinks it over. “But not today. Give him some time to stew before commencing negotiations.” 

They go back to reworking the filming schedule, identifying all the scenes that they _can_ shoot without Kageyama and Hinata and making plans to get those out of the way first. Some of this involves going on-location a bit sooner than they’d planned to — they’ll have to check weather forecasts, confirm venue hires. 

It’s then that Daichi remembers that he still hasn’t told Kuroo about the latest Kageyama development.

For a fleeting, desperate moment, he wonders if it’s possible to get away without telling his executive producer that he’s banned the lead actor from the set. 

After a moment and a gulp of coffee, sanity returns. There is no alternative. Kuroo will have to know.

Daichi runs through half a dozen ways he can possibly break this news to Kuroo Tetsurou before settling on a vague phone email: _Have had to rework the production schedule slightly. Will update you next time we meet._

“You look kind of stressed,” Suga notes. “You doing okay?”

Daichi shrugs. “Yeah, it’s just been a huge three days, that’s all. Shall we have some breakfast?” 

He pops some slices of bread into the toaster and rummages in the fridge for butter and jam. Meanwhile, Suga brews a fresh jug of coffee. Daichi has just bitten into his first piece of buttered toast when his mobile phone vibrates against the linoleum of the dining table.

It’s Kuroo calling. At 5 a.m.

Daichi answers his phone. “You’re up early.”

Kuroo’s voice is rough with sleepiness, but the usual good humour is present and audible. “I forgot to set my phone to silent last night so your message woke me up. I usually get up around this time though. Cardio class at the gym starts at 6 a.m.”

Go figure that Kuroo Tetsurou is the sort of person who goes to 6 a.m. cardio classes. “I didn’t mean to bother you this early in the day.”

“Seriously, it’s cool. Something like changing the filming schedule I want to know about, plus, I can probably help. Kageyama again, I’m guessing?” 

“Sort of. Well, it’s more a decision I made.”

“A decision you made?” There’s something about that inquisitive, deceptively neutral tone that Kuroo adopts when he begins what is to all intent and purposes a highly effective interrogation that always makes Daichi feel very … careful. Careful, that’s the word for it. 

“I banned him and Hinata Shouyou both from filming until they could both commit to behave professionally onset.” 

It’s a very long time before Kuroo responds. Daichi listens anxiously to the silence as the seconds tick past. He’s never seen Kuroo lose his temper. It’s not even evident that Kuroo has a temper to lose. But there’s a first time for everything. 

It’s just as well that _A Tale of Crows_ is going to be Daichi’s last best project, since it’s going to end with Daichi completely ruining his professional relationship with Japan’s youngest wunderkind scriptwriter-producer.

Kuroo speaks: “You know, I had a feeling when I signed up for this project that it was going to be fun. Glad to see I was right.”

Huh? 

“Dinner tonight?” Kuroo says. “We can talk more then.” Daichi can hear the smile in Kuroo’s voice. In fact it sounds more like a smirk.

“Yeah, why not,” he says weakly, and the phone call ends, leaving Daichi to face yet another day of barely surviving his directorial incumbency by the skin of his teeth.

 

* * *

 

The cast and crew of _A Tale of Crews_ accept the revised filming schedule with surprising good nature and grace, proving yet again that they are in fact, the best team in the world. There’s a mad scramble to reorganise as Ennoshita and the set decorators hunt down the props they need, and the actors have to take some time out to review the lines from scenes they hadn’t expected to be performing yet, but although Day 3’s filming only wraps up after sundown, they are more or less back on schedule again. 

After all this, Daichi is bone-tired. He moves slowly, limbs weary, as they clean up for the day. As he stacks chairs, he remembers exhaustedly that he was supposed to meet Kuroo for dinner. By this point he is not sure whether he can manage coherent small talk, let alone discuss Kageyama and Hinata with Kuroo. 

Most of the others have gone home by the time Kuroo arrives. Daichi finds himself slumped on a crate in one corner of the studio, staring at a copy of a script and storyboards, as if robotically gazing at them will somehow grant him energy and artistic inspiration. 

It’s the wafting scent of melted cheese that he notices first. He looks up and finds Kuroo walking towards him, carrying a stack of paper boxes. That must be where the wonderful smell is going from. 

“I have to apologise,” Kuroo says as he walks over and takes a seat next to Daichi. “I didn’t think of it until lunchtime, but of course you’d be too bloody tired by now for _another_ strategic discussion about the film. So I bought some panini from the Italian cafe nearby and figured we could just grab a quick bite and then call it a day.”

This guy really does think of everything. 

Kuroo puts the boxes down on the crate between them and starts opening the lids. “This one’s mozzarella and Spanish ham. This one’s roasted vegetables. Then there’s one with chicken and avocado. I figured I’d let you take your pick.”

“They all sound good, honestly.” Everything sounds and smells good by now. Daichi only had three rice crackers for lunch today. 

“We’ll split all of them then.”

They eat in silence and drink from the bottles of mineral water Kuroo brought and as promised, Kuroo doesn’t try to talk about the film, doesn’t ask any questions about what’s happening except a general inquiry about how the day went. Gradually, Daichi feels the tension slide out of him. 

When dinner is over they walk to the metro station and Kuroo says, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” and steps onto an escalator and disappears downstairs with a little wave of his arm. 

Daichi takes the subway home and collapses into bed and is asleep the moment his head touches the pillow.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Kuroo is on set at half past seven. Freshly showered and alert, he’s dressed in slim-fit cargo pants and a Tetris-print black cardigan that Daichi recognises from the Ksquared2 lightbox advertisements lining the corridors of the subway station near Daichi’s apartment.

Despite not having met most of the team in weeks, Kuroo remembers 90% of their names. He introduces himself to the few crew members whom he hasn’t met — some of the younger Karasuno students clearly know who he is and are rather starstruck — then retires with Daichi to the director’s corner, where they sit on folding chairs and talk over the revised filming schedule. 

“Looks like we’ll have to start filming on location at W University a bit earlier than expected,” Kuroo says, thumbing through the sheets. “Should I call university administration to let them know?”

“Yes please,” says Daichi, feeling grateful. “I was going to do that at lunchtime today, but if you could?”

Kuroo shrugs. “I’d be more than happy to. The rest of this looks very sensible, you and Sugawara have done a good job. But it looks like our deadline for getting the brats to cooperate is a few days maximum. If they haven’t worked out something by then, we need to start looking for a new lead actor. We do have some surplus in the film budget, but not a great deal of it.”

Daichi feels the mild beginnings of a headache around his temples. “I’m sorry it came to this.”

Kuroo throws him a puzzled look. “What for? You made the right decision. Now we just have to work out the best way to discipline our problem children.”

Filming begins shortly thereafter and Daichi has to admit it’s a lot easier with Kuroo on set. Just having an extra set of eyes and a second opinion, another person he can rely on to keep production going, makes everything so much less stressful. And Kuroo’s experience shows here just as it does in other aspects of the filmmaking process. Without being intrusive he helps the the team stay focused, spots mistakes and gets them corrected quickly, keeps the on-set workflow organised and efficient. 

When Kuroo is here Daichi doesn’t feel as if he is the final and ultimate person _responsible_ for making this film succeed. It’s a tremendous relief.

Daichi even has time for a proper lunch break today. He uses this opportunity to sit down with Suga and Kuroo and talk about how they are going to approach Kageyama and Hinata. 

“They’ve both sent me twenty-five emails each in the last thirty-six hours,” Daichi says ruefully, looking at his phone. “I hear Hinata has even been emailing other crew members.”

“I, um, actually talked to Hinata on the phone yesterday after receiving his email,” says Suga, tone apologetic. “I thought it was important to reassure him that we weren’t planning to remove him from the cast for Kageyama’s sake or anything like that.”

“How did it go?” asks Daichi, curious.

“Uh, well — apparently he was having dinner with Kageyama when I called him. They spent all of yesterday together trying to come up with a plan to get back on set.” 

“Sounds like they’ve found friendship in shared adversity,” comments Kuroo with a smirk. “At least we now know they can get along _some_ of the time.” 

“I think they’re planning to visit today,” says Suga.

Daichi frowns. “I told them they were banned from the set.”

“Sure, but you didn’t forbid them from visiting the _studio_ ,” Suga points out. 

“You’re not giving them advice on the sly, are you?” Daichi asks. 

“Not exactly.” Suga gives a quiet, butter-can’t-possibly-melt smile. 

“Well, we had to deal with it sooner or later. All the better if they’re showing some actual initiative.” Kuroo sounds amused. Kuroo always sounds amused. Is Daichi the only one who gets stress headaches at the thought of this entire situation? 

They start off the afternoon’s filming soon afterward, working on a scene with Asahi and Yachi feeding milk to a housecat. They’re reviewing footage in between takes when Ennoshita comes up and says, “Kageyama and Hinata are outside. They’re asking to see you.” 

Daichi exchanges glances with Kuroo before making the decision. “I told them not to return to the set. If they want to see me, they can come back at the end of the day, after today’s shoot is over.” 

Ennoshita nods and then leaves the set. A couple of minutes later he’s back, saying, “They say they’ll be in the waiting room at the front of the studio when you’re done.”

“Sure,” says Daichi, surprised at how calm and confident he sounds right now. “All right, let’s get things into place for another take.”

 

* * *

 

Daichi isn’t sure what to expect as he walks to the front of the studio together with Kuroo and Suga that evening. Given what he knows of Kageyama and Hinata he’s half-expecting to be assaulted by a combination attack of flying tackles, and is cautious as he opens the tinted double doors and peers into the waiting area.

Kageyama and Hinata are sitting on a pair of plastic beam seats, shared furrows of intense concentration on their brows, and when they hear the sound of the doors opening their focus zooms in on Daichi like a pair of twin lasers. 

“You wanted to see me?” asks Daichi. 

They come up to him and, with perfect coordination, bow deeply and chorus apologies: “We’re really very sorry! Please let us work on this film!”

“Pretty good teamwork there,” Kuroo notes. 

Daichi sighs, folds his arms across his chest. “And what happens when the two of you have another fight?”

“We won’t,” says Hinata. 

“Also, let’s be realistic about one thing, Kageyama,” says Daichi. “Hinata’s a beginner, and he’s going to make some mistakes. You can’t throw a fucking tantrum every time that happens. I think you know that this sort of behaviour is exactly why you’ve been out of work for three years, despite being the most experienced actor on this project.”

Surprisingly, Kageyama has the decency to look abashed. “I understand,” Kageyama mutters, avoiding eye contact. “I’ll do my best.”

“And every time you two have a fight, we’re going to put you on toilet clean-up duty for a week,” Suga adds cheerily. “Understood? We’ll add vacuuming and litter collection to the list if you keep repeating the behaviour.”

“Understood!” say Kageyama and Hinata. Hinata is earnest and enthusiastic, of course, just as he’s been since he turned up on the first day of auditions, but it’s interesting to see Kageyama’s own evident sincerity. 

Evidently Kageyama doesn’t show up to work _intending_ to be shitty to every actor who doesn’t live up to his high standards. 

It’s pretty clear what Suga thinks, so Daichi turns to Kuroo. 

Kuroo shrugs. “I approve of toilet clean-up.”

It’s true that there’s no way of telling if the two kids are going to screw up until they do it again. And they do look truly remorseful.

Daichi opens his mouth to agree when he’s interrupted by Kageyama, who says, looking serious: “I want to come back to acting. That’s why I’ll do whatever it takes to see this film succeed.”

“Don’t take the lines out of my mouth,” Hinata scowls at Kageyama. “I’m as serious about this as you are.”

Instead of snapping back, Kageyama actually says, “Yeah, I know.” Though he follows it up with, “But you’re still clumsy and useless.” 

“There you go again! Do you want both of us to clean toilets?”

“No,” says Kageyama. He looks at Hinata and the two of them turn to Daichi expectantly. Daichi sighs.

“It’s decided then. You can both return to filming, but we won’t take it lightly if you start fighting on set.” 

Kageyama and Hinata let out identical whoops of delight, then say in unison: “Thank you very much! We won’t let you down.” 

Daichi nods. “I hope you won’t. I’ll see you both tomorrow at the usual time.” 

They both punch the air at the same time. “Yes!” Then they’re off and running, grabbing their things and jostling each other in a mad rush to go home, as if they don’t want to give Daichi any chance to change his mind.

 

* * *

 

To everyone’s utter relief, most of all Daichi’s, there is a definite shift in Kageyama and Hinata’s behaviour when filming starts on Day 5. Oh, they’re still arguing for sure, but the disputes mostly take place between takes, and involve neither property destruction nor thrown food. 

The two also work surprisingly well with each other when the cameras are rolling. Hinata’s tendency to nervousness seems to evaporate when he’s acting opposite Kageyama; and there’s times when Kageyama’s acting — surprisingly subtle and moving for someone who’s such a total blockhead when he’s not being filmed — draws the best out of Hinata.

Their on-screen chemistry is obvious from the director’s chair. It’s almost a shame that Hinata’s unnamed role only has half a dozen scenes with Kageyama in this film. 

The team is more or less able to revert to the original production schedule, which they do, Kuroo making the necessary phone calls to manage filming locations and logistics. They reach the end of Friday _ahead_ of schedule, and when Daichi and Kuroo are finalising the plans for next week, both of them are in pretty good moods. 

“Kageyama’s certainly something,” comments Kuroo. “I can see why you didn’t want to drop him. Even though film insurance nearly wouldn’t cover us when they saw his name on the cast list.”

“Is that so?” Yet another detail, another behind-the-scenes task that Kuroo has been working on quietly, that Daichi wouldn’t even know how to tackle. Daichi feels like he’s lucked out endlessly with this project, and Kuroo’s involvement is no small component of that luck.

“In the end they weren’t too hard to persuade. It helped that Shimizu Kiyoko _and_ Takeda Ittetsu were on board.” Kuroo files away a sheaf of papers into a plastic folder. “All right, I think we’re done for now. What are your plans for the weekend?”

“Um … rest a lot?” 

“Sounds like a plan. I’m meeting a couple of friends for drinks tomorrow night, would you be interested in coming along? I think you’d get along, and they’re pretty useful people to know in this industry. One of them comes from Miyagi Prefecture as well, so you might have some things in common.” 

Daichi hesitates a fraction. “Friends?” 

Among industry insiders, Kuroo Tetsurou is primarily known as a young and unusually talented screenwriter and producer. In celebrity blogs and tabloids though, he has another arguably more famous reputation: as part of a group of precocious twentysomethings in the entertainment industry who appear regularly at high-profile events and on society pages. The members of this social circle vary depending on who you ask, but the most commonly circulated names are teen idol Oikawa Tooru; Nakashima Isamu, eldest scion of the Nakashima showbiz dynasty; and Bokuto Koutarou, frontman of Japan’s biggest rock band, the Hoots. 

In particular, Kuroo is most often photographed with Bokuto at film premieres and charity parties. Like everyone else in the country, Daichi has heard plenty about Bokuto Koutarou: some of it good, some of it bad, and all of it _nuts_.

Daichi doesn’t think Kuroo is about to introduce him to his rock star friends anytime soon, but he still feels trepidation at the thought of rubbing shoulders with Tokyo’s showbiz elite. 

“It’ll be a pretty low-key night, I promise,” Kuroo says. “Neither of these guys are late-night owls, so we’ll probably finish well before midnight.” 

“Sure, I’ll come,” Daichi decides. You only live once, right? 

He isn’t sure what to expect, but he’s surprised nevertheless the next evening when he shows up at the address Kuroo emails him and finds a small jazz bar: narrow and dim, with a floor of bright mosaic tiles and wooden walls decorated with calligraphy scrolls and Art Deco posters. 

Kuroo’s already standing at the counter, along with two other young men who look familiar. Daichi doesn’t instantly recognise them, however, not until Kuroo mentions their names. 

“This is Akaashi Keiji and Iwaizumi Hajime,” Kuroo introduces. “Iwaizumi also comes from Miyagi like Sawamura does. Akaashi is a record producer who runs his own independent production company.”

Daichi shakes hands with both of them. He soon recalls where he’s seen Iwaizumi’s face before: from a long-running sentai show that aired a few years back, as well as a couple of recent straight-to-TV action movies. Iwaizumi doesn’t seem particularly glitzy or glamorous in person. He has short black hair, brushed indifferently, and wears a plain black T-shirt paired with blue jeans. 

Akaashi Keiji on the other hand, wears expensive if minimalist clothing: striped cotton shirt, a pair of twill trousers so neatly pressed and form-fitting they look tailored for him. A silver-cased Rolex sits on his left wrist. Daichi recognises Akaashi’s name from the credits of a recent Hoots album he owns, but doesn’t know much about the guy otherwise.

“Sawamura is directing the film I’m working on at the moment,” explains Kuroo, as they order their drinks from the bartender and then retire to a table.

“The one co-written by Takeda-sensei? That sounds promising,” says Akaashi and Iwaizumi nods in agreement. Daichi has to bite back the urge to self-deprecate, explain that no, it’s just a small project, it’s not even high concept, everyone is being very kind in their estimates of this film’s worthiness and probable success, Takeda and Kuroo and Shimizu and everyone included —

He cuts off his train of thought before his anxiety can get the better of him.

“So, what’s the film about?” Akaashi asks, casual interest in his tone of voice as he looks at Daichi over his gin and tonic. Daichi glances at Kuroo, but Kuroo only raises his eyebrows in a look that says, _You’re the director, you introduce it._

Daichi clears his throat. “Well, um, it’s basically a coming-of-age story about a boy who’s an apathetic college freshman. He doesn’t have any hobbies or interests and he doesn’t mind. One day, however, he accidentally discovers that animals are shunning him, and he can’t quite figure out why. It disturbs him, because there is no reason for them to avoid someone as normal as he is, but his older sister believes that he is just hallucinating due to stress.”

Nobody is tuning out yet. Excellent. He continues, “As he tries to investigate, he strikes up an unlikely friendship with another student who has the menacing aura of a wild animal. The film explores a few themes — growing up, the importance of family, the importance of forming close and valuable relationships, the human struggle to choose between reason or instinct. Why we should work on our lofty ambitions, but also appreciate the small things along the way.”

“Sounds like an interesting premise,” Akaashi nods. “I can see why Takeda-sensei agreed to work on it.”

“I hear Kageyama’s working with you too,” says Iwaizumi, after taking a swig of Sapporo beer. 

“Ah, of course. You and Oikawa acted on a miniseries together with Kageyama about five years ago, didn’t you? What was it called?” Kuroo snaps his fingers. “ _Kitagawa Days_ , that was it. What was that like? Was he already difficult to work with back then?”

Iwaizumi frowns as he thinks about the question. “Not that I particularly noticed. I think it was certain people he didn’t get along with, though, not everyone. Oikawa didn’t like him, but that was nothing to do with Kageyama’s provocation. If anything Kageyama had a bit of a crush on Oikawa. He was always asking him for acting advice, things like that.” 

Daichi can’t imagine Kageyama asking for advice from anyone on _A Tale of Crows_ except maybe Shimizu. 

Akaashi remarks, “It’s quite the coup, though, if Kageyama sticks with this film through production. It’ll be his first major project in a few years, right?”

The conversation goes on for about two hours and Daichi’s amazed by how these young, talented, much more successful people are showing real interest in his film. He’s never been one of those people who went through film school convinced of his ability to make an impact through his creative work. He knows the kind of movies he’d like to make, sure — and truth be told, if there weren’t so many other considerations, he’d like to keep making them for many many years.

But aspiring filmmakers are a dime a dozen, and successful ones very rare. As much as Daichi wants to be one of the chosen few, deep down he’s never been _sure_ that he’ll make it. 

He can, however, at least make sure that _A Tale of Crows_ is the best film he can make, right now, right here, with the resources he has. And right now, he’s got more resources than he ever dreamed of having.


	3. Chapter 3

The following Monday, Daichi and Suga make their way to the studio after breakfast and reach just shortly before eight. Most of the crew are already there, and some of the actors are rehearsing their lines for the scene that’s going to be filmed shortly. Suga immediately heads towards the cameramen to discuss how they should film the scene, and a couple of the props crew greet Daichi as they pass by, carrying a crate of paraphernalia that they’re using to decorate the set.

Daichi takes a moment to quietly appreciate all the bustling that’s happening. There’s an atmosphere of collegiality and purpose that definitely wasn’t there when they first started last week, especially when he recalls Kageyama and Hinata’s numerous fights, and how inexperienced some of the crew members were at handling the equipment. They’ve evolved into something resembling a real, professional cast and crew over the span of a week, something right out of Daichi’s wildest fantasies. He’s still actually quite disbelieving of the fact that he’s directing a movie which people are willing to wholeheartedly work on, never mind the obscure plot and content and total lack of profitability. Miracles do happen.

Filming goes (mostly) without a hiccup that morning. Daichi almost intervenes — a knee-jerk reaction — when one of the lights crew accidentally casts the wrong light in the middle of one of Kageyama’s monologues, but thankfully Kageyama seems to have learnt something about behaving professionally on set from the events of the preceding week and keeps his temper in check. Other than that, Asahi has some trouble with his nerves, but that is nothing a few more takes and a bit more warming up can’t solve.

Takeda drops by during lunchtime, and they talk about how filming has been like for the past week or so over the large order of pizza that Ennoshita ordered for all cast and crew members earlier that morning.

“It’s been exhilarating,” Daichi describes. “I really never imagined the movie would be filmed on this scale. It’s all thanks to your help, Takeda-sensei. Looking over the script for me, helping me to write it, even helping me to look for someone to assist me with producing and all the important background work.

“Daichi, give yourself more credit!” Takeda beams as he chews on his margherita slice. “I wouldn’t have agreed to pick up the project if you didn’t come up with a good idea in the first place.”

“Really, I’ve got to thank you for a lot. Especially for persuading Kuroo to work on this project. There’s still so much I don’t know about filmmaking, even after going to film school for four whole years, and I don’t really have the necessary connections. Suga and Asahi are great at what they do, but they have limited experience on set as well. I can’t imagine what we’d be doing right now without such an able producer. Let’s just say we’d probably be two whole weeks behind schedule right now.”

“Even though you’ve only gone through one week of the schedule, at this moment?”

“You know what I mean,” Daichi replies in response to Takeda’s good-natured teasing.

Takeda downs more of his pizza with some soda. “Well, Kuroo probably said yes because he found the movie very interesting as well. His mentor — the founder of Nekoma Studios — invested heavily in independent cinema, though that was a couple decades ago. They’ve moved into producing more mainstream work lately because of market demand, but Kuroo’s always been committed to furthering his mentor’s vision. You should talk to him about this if you have the time. He’s a hitmaker, definitely, but he knows a thing or two about the independent movie scene in Japan.”

He leaves the set after lunch, but not before going around the studio and talking to some of the crew, some of whom have been under his tutelage as well. He caps it all off with one of his signature motivational lectures — erudite, poetic, and completely incomprehensible to the uninitiated — but everyone’s morale is clearly boosted after his visit. Even Kageyama, who is hardly impressed with anybody, seems slightly awed.

The terrific atmosphere on set persists for the next few days. Daichi contemplates getting Takeda to drop by the set more often. Shimizu, as expected, delivers one pitch-perfect performance after another, but Asahi and Nishinoya’s skills seem to have also improved steeply from day one. Even the beginners, Yachi and Hinata, have overcome the anxiety that comes with working with actors far more experienced than they are, and it shows in how relaxed they’ve gradually become in each additional scene.

Kageyama, to Daichi’s absolute surprise, not only takes feedback and criticism especially well, but also takes the initiative to offer suggestions that neither Daichi nor Suga would have thought of on their own. Most notably, he even takes the time to patiently take Hinata through the finer points of technique when they need to film a particularly difficult scene. Though Daichi can hear (and ignores) the occasional stream of insults that they sometimes hurl at each other, it is hard to imagine that they were launching props at each others’ faces just a week ago.

To add to that, Tanaka does excellent camera work despite only being in his last year of film school, and Daichi imagines that someone like Ennoshita would make a great director or producer himself someday, the way he’s going about the set, taking care to tend to all the minute details that could make or break the big picture.

It’s not until Kuroo texts him on Wednesday afternoon that he realises that he’s been helming the production all by himself for three days now without incident, the routine on set running like clockwork, smooth as butter.

 _how are things?_ reads Kuroo’s message. _sorry — quite busy with other projects these few days — but just thought i’d find out if you needed any help._

 _unexpectedly,_ Daichi texts back, amazed at himself for a second there, _swimmingly well._

 

* * *

 

Kuroo doesn’t come on Thursday either (“The production assistant here screwed up one of the filming permits we got, so now we have to rearrange the schedule,” he explains by phone call), but Kozume Kenma does. Daichi doesn’t actually know much about Kenma, except that he runs Ksquared2, and also that he’s good friends with Kuroo. There would be no chance in hell, otherwise, of getting Ksquared2 to sponsor nearly sixty percent of the outfits to be worn by the actors in the film. Those clothes don’t come cheap. Daichi still wonders, sometimes, looking at the crew handle the wardrobe and accessories, what kind of an astronomical good deed he might have committed in his past life to deserve this.

Kenma drops by the studio in the early evening with a portfolio of designs. He’s here to confirm the order of clothes that they’ll need for the second half of the filming schedule. Daichi is surprised to notice that he’s actually decked out from head to toe in basic, understated casual wear that one might find in their local Uniqlo store — light grey hoodie, black skinny jeans, and a pair of red sneakers — but he doesn’t really have a good eye for fashion unless the designs are really fancy, so maybe Kenma is wearing something really expensive and he just doesn’t know better. His hair is flashy, though — a sleek, chin-length cut dyed blonde, but somehow it fits his minimalist style very well.

Filming was scheduled to last late into the night, so Daichi lets everyone off for a two-hour dinner break while he looks through the portfolio with Kenma.

“I just want to thank you again for agreeing to help sponsor the wardrobe for this movie,” Daichi reiterates when they’ve more or less decided on the final selection. “It’s a small production so an opportunity like this would not normally come by. We’re all really grateful for your help. Really, I have no idea how to express the full extent of my gratitude.”

“It’s okay,” Kenma replies, keeping his eyes trained on the catalogue as he marks down a few final details. He’s looked Daichi in the eyes maybe twice this entire conversation. “Kuroo said that it was a good film and I would be doing you all a huge favour if I helped. He showed me the script. I liked it. So I agreed.”

“You really needn’t have come down personally. We could have gone over to your studio this weekend or something.”

“I had some free time. I’d rather get the task finished sooner to speed things up. And Kuroo said it would be good for me to take a walk instead of — instead of staying in my studio all the time.”

“Well, I’m very glad he knows someone as generous as you, and who’s a brilliant designer to boot,” Daichi smiles. “Your designs are really something.”

“Not really,” Kenma mumbles, gathering his materials. He gets up from his seat and bows slightly to Daichi. “If that is all, I should get going. I will arrange for the clothes to be delivered as soon as I can.”

“Let me walk you out,” Daichi hurries to say, before his guest can disappear and deny him the chance to demonstrate his gratitude right down to the very last second. He hails a cab for Kenma at the main road and stays there until the vehicle speeds out of sight.

He’s looking over the next day’s scenes with Suga — it’s already eleven and they are the last two who have yet to leave the studio — when Kuroo calls for the second time.

“Sorry for not checking in for the whole day, but I’ve only gotten a real break now myself,” he explains, a slight lethargy to his voice. “Did Kenma come to see you?”

“He did,” Daichi says, nodding slightly to Suga as he excuses himself. The corridor outside the studio is long and empty and his voice echoes off the walls when he talks. “The designs he offered were incredible and he put so much thought into tailoring the choices to the characters. I really appreciate that. He didn’t seem to want to talk much, though. Is he always like this? Or maybe I came across as a bit scary? I’ve been told this several times before …”

“It’s not you,” Kuroo replies. “He’s always been a shy kid from young and he doesn’t take well to strangers. We’ve lived in the same area since we were children, so I’ve known him for a long time — he never really liked talking to people. Well, he was always drawing from a young age. If he weren’t a fashion designer now, I think he’d be making character designs for video game companies.”

He pauses for a moment. “Well, whatever it was, I thought it’d be nice to encourage him to do what he likes. Maybe his designs would be sitting in a file at home if I didn’t push him to submit them to a design school … Anyway, I think he appreciates the chance to be part of something bigger, since he tends to work alone often. So let him work as hard as he wants to on your film. Half the magic is in the camerawork and editing, but he’ll make sure your actors look stunning.”

There’s abject fondness and pride in his words — lots of it. It really sparks Daichi’s curiosity. Vaguely he recalls one of Kuroo’s other ongoing productions — that one show about the fashion industry — didn’t he get Kenma’s work featured on it too? Apparently he’d lobbied really hard for Kenma’s participation. Maybe they were … no, it’s really not any of his business, and anyway, it would be very rude to ask about something like that out of the blue.

“I still have no idea how to deal with the fact that I’m getting all this help from so many capable people,” he continues, glancing at the clock perched atop the wall he’s facing. “When this movie wraps I’m going to buy everybody a huge meal. Takeda-sensei, Shimizu, and you, too. And because I’m afraid he’s not going to accept my invitation, I’ll leave the task of inviting Kenma to you, please.”

“I don’t know about the rest, but I can really work up an appetite when I want to. You’re going to have to pay out of pocket,” Kuroo laughs.

 

* * *

 

Friday night everyone stays late for a more protracted clean-up than usual. For the next two weeks the crew will be shooting on-location at Ueno Zoo, a privilege Kuroo successfully negotiated for some months back. Despite having just finished a lengthy and intense week of shooting, the crew remains motivated, spirits unflagging as they pack equipment and load up the vans.

If morale is already high, then it reaches even greater elevations when Shimizu and Yachi emerge from the kitchenette area, carrying wooden trays of homemade onigiri to be shared among the cast and crew. Tanaka and Nishinoya literally leap in joy, swearing eternal love and devotion to Shimizu as they gingerly cradle the onigiri in their fingers, reluctant to consume them.

(Fifteen minutes later they’re scolded by Shimizu and told to eat the onigiri, which they do with great reluctance after taking photographs of the food, promising solemnly to Shimizu that they will _never, ever_ , post their visual evidence of Kiyoko-san’s culinary goddess skills to Twitter or anywhere else on the Internet. They eat in a slow, meditative fashion, savouring each bite of rice and umeboshi as if it were ambrosia from the gods.)

The atmosphere is one of easy, unified camaraderie; despite the chatter and laughter going on, the clean-up makes good progress. Kageyama and Hinata compete at stacking chairs and crates with the fiery intensity that accompanies all their joint activities. Ennoshita and Tanaka and their team of young cinematographers pack up their stands and cameras in no time at all and begin assisting the grip and prop teams without even pausing for a break.

Kuroo is everywhere at once: carrying a clipboard, moving as an extra pair of hands wherever needed — one minute he’s teasing an outraged Hinata, the next minute he’s helping Shimizu and Hitoka wash up the food trays. Easy and attentive, with an offhand grace Daichi doubts he’ll ever be able to emulate, no matter how many film projects Daichi directs.

It’s too easy comparing himself unfavourably to Kuroo, though, and ultimately unproductive, so he concentrates on taking inventory together with Sugawara and loses himself in the task for a good twenty minutes, until his attention is caught by a hush that’s fallen across the room.

Daichi looks up, noticing his suddenly silent crewmates’ gazes directed at the entrance on the other end of the stage. There’s a figure silhouetted there, one whom Daichi doesn’t recognise until the newcomer steps forward, into the illumination of the spotlights shining across the set. 

“Hello, Kuroo,” says Oikawa Tooru, smiling lightly. 

It’s Daichi’s first time seeing Oikawa Tooru in person. The young man is as piquant and attractive in the flesh as he is on the airbrushed glossy covers of teen magazines, his wavy hair styled and blow-dried as if he’s about to enter a photoshoot. His clothing is youthful and very trendy, which is expected — but his eyes are careful and clever, which was a little less expected.

“Hi Oikawa,” says Kuroo, not missing a beat. “We weren’t expecting you to visit.”

“Iwa-chan told me about this pet project of yours. It sounded too intriguing for me to not check it out.”

“What a pity. If I'd known six months ago that you'd be interested in an independent drama film, I would have sent you an invitation to the casting call.”

“Oh, don't worry about it. Looks like you've managed to recruit plenty of star presence here as it is, Kuro-chan.”

There's a brief smiling stare-off between Kuroo and Oikawa. The rest of the film crew watch in careful silence.

“Is it just me,” Suga murmurs to Daichi, “or is that thunder I hear rumbling in the distance?”

Daichi considers the atmosphere between the two young celebrities. It's not quite a confrontation — more a mutual study of intention, tactics and implications. Kuroo used to do it to Daichi when they first met, although that stopped once they got used to each other's working styles.

After a moment, Kuroo's smile eases, and he turns towards Daichi and Suga. “Now that you've taken the trouble to visit us, you should get to know the team. This is our director, Sawamura Daichi, and our head cinematographer, Sugawara Koushi.”

Oikawa shakes their hands, surprisingly genial and courteous. A light note of citrus hovers in the air: Oikawa's cologne.

“It's really good to see other people our age doing independent work,” Oikawa says to Daichi. “You and Kuro-chan seem to have assembled a top-notch team here. Is it okay if I say hello to some of them?”

“Kageyama is _there_ , you know,” Kuroo says pointedly to Oikawa as he nods at a spot several yards away — where Kageyama Tobio has, in attempting to disassemble a tripod stand, just fallen and landed on his bottom.

“I'm not quite as one track as _that_ , Kuro-chan.” Kuroo says nothing to this, and Oikawa gives out a sigh. “Fine, you're right, I am. Let me give my regards to Shimizu-san and Yachi-san first then, so I can get on with torturing my dear kouhai.”

Daichi watches Oikawa saunter off towards where Shimizu and Yachi have been packing up props and linen and says, “Did he just admit to visiting us just so he could give Kageyama a hard time?”

Kuroo shrugs. “We all have our failings. Oikawa has more failings than the average person. Kick back and relax, it should be entertaining enough.”

 

* * *

 

Hinata has seen far too much of the great Kageyama Tobio in the two weeks since this movie started, but he’s never seen Kageyama _freeze_ just like that, not even when they both got ordered off the set last week. 

The reason seems obvious enough: the pretty young man who’s walking towards them with a smile on his face, whom everyone except Hinata seems to recognise. 

“Oikawa Tooru, huh?” mutters Tanaka. “Pretty guys like him piss me off.”

“Who’s he?” Hinata whispers back, gripping tightly onto the mic stand he’s holding. This Oikawa guy looks scary and his smile doesn’t seem sincere at all. It’s not a good first impression.

Tanaka’s eyes go wide. “Are you kidding? You’ve never heard of Oikawa Tooru? Never seen him on the covers of magazines? He’s got like twenty million fangirls in Japan. Maybe fifty million overseas.”

Hinata watches silently as Oikawa’s smile zooms in on Kageyama, who’s just standing there stock-still, one hand still grasping the tripod stand in front of him, like he’s forgotten to let go of it.

“Yo, Tobio-chan! Long time no see.”

A frantic, confused expression splays itself across Kageyama’s face, and Hinata swears he can see Kageyama squirm a bit. What the fuck? Hinata’s never seen Kageyama look confused on set, _ever_. For a moment he thinks Kageyama’s going to hit Oikawa with the tripod stand — ( _he can’t do that! What if he gets banned from the set again and then we won’t be able to film and then_ I _won’t be able to act either and_ —)

— instead, to Hinata’s astonishment, Kageyama just bows, very slightly, eyes glued to the floor, and says, “Oikawa-san.”

“Good to see you acting again. And here I thought you were going to spend the rest of your life behaving like a three-month-old baby, pouring all that useless genius of yours down a drainpipe.”

Did Kageyama just flinch?

“Oh?” Oikawa’s brows lift as if he’s just realised something. “… you _have_ , haven’t you? Acted like a crappy little brat?” 

Kageyama flushes.

Oikawa gives off an attractive little sigh. There’s an air about the young man that Hinata can only think of as _star quality_. It’s the same sort of presence that Hinata sensed so many years ago, back when he saw the Small Giant on television. The same sort of presence that Kageyama himself has. Nobody can ignore Kageyama when he’s acting for real. 

Something about the whole exchange makes Hinata feel pissed off about something, but he doesn’t really know what. This is some weird-ass behaviour, coming from Kageyama, who’s always yelling at him like he’s an idiot. But now he’s all scared stiff in front of this Oikawa guy. Does this mean he’s an even better actor than Kageyama is? Hinata grits his teeth in frustration. He doesn’t want to lose. Not to Kageyama, and not to this flashy shiny Oikawa person either. But he knows he’s nowhere near their level yet. He doesn’t need Kageyama complaining about his crappy line delivery every time in order to realise _that_.

“Oi,” Tanaka says, “the mic stand is going to break if you grip it so hard.”

Hinata barely registers any of that. Instead, he watches intently as Kageyama asks Oikawa, “Will you —”

He trails off and grimaces, like he’s lost for words. What the hell! It really annoys Hinata to see how _different_ Kageyama is in front of this Oikawa person, when he’s so blunt and mean to everyone else, especially to Hinata himself.

Oikawa throws Kageyama a cool stare. “Yes?”

“Will you come watch the film? When it premieres?” The words come rushing out of Kageyama like a flood of water breaking past a dam.

“Why not? Should be quite the event.” Oikawa folds his arm across his chest. He’s talking really loudly, as if he wants the whole set to hear what he’s saying to Kageyama. “Maybe I’ll get Kuro-chan to show me the raw footage so I can laugh at all your flubbed lines. Do you remember that time you had a fit of the hiccups halfway through the sunrise scene in _Kitagawa Days_? It was so bad that by the time you got better the sun was up and we had to reschedule to the next day.” 

Kuroo interjects from his corner, “Actually, Oikawa — Sawamura and I would be interested in getting your input once post-production starts. You’ve always had a pretty good eye for film.” 

“We would?” Director Sawamura sounds startled. Then he clears his throat and exchanges glances with Kuroo. “Sure. Of course we would.” 

“How presumptuous, Kuro-chan. I’m a busy and in-demand individual, you know. But I suppose I can spare a few hours for an old friend. And for my dear kouhai, of course.” Oikawa turns and directs another one of his smug, lazy smiles at Kageyama. For some reason the sight of it makes Hinata’s blood boil.

“All good, then.” Kuroo bares his teeth in a grin. Hinata thinks Kuroo is even scarier than Oikawa. But not as scary as Director Sawamura.

Oikawa only stays for a few more minutes before saying something about having an A-list party to attend. Then he wanders off, which is good because by then Kageyama looks as if he’s about to explode all over the set. He looks like he’s been possessed by a demon that’s going to cut down anybody within a five-foot radius. Crap. It makes Hinata’s stomach hurt. Suddenly he can barely even remember what Oikawa looks like. He wants to go to the toilet.

“What was that,” Nishinoya wonders, turning back to the equipment. “I’ve only seen this Oikawa guy once before, but wow, he’s scarier than I remember. Hey, Hinata, what’s wrong! You’re sweating bullets!”

Hinata doubles his efforts at stacking chairs and crates and hopes that Kageyama isn’t going to explode at _him_.

 

* * *

 

The following week Kageyama turns up to set just as Daichi predicted. On edge, with a scary black face.

“Why do you look so scary! We’re not shooting a horror movie!” Hinata yelps as Kageyama passes him by, to which Kageyama responds by looming closer to Hinata’s face. The shadow between his brows is really nothing to joke about.

“Do you want to film one?” Kageyama threatens. Hinata looks like he’s going to pee himself. “We’ll definitely be filming one today if you fuck up.”

“Kageyama, that’s enough,” Suga calls out, and runs over immediately to resolve the completely unnecessary dispute.

Daichi feels his eyelid twitch.

“Please kindly inform Oikawa-san to kindly inform you if he’s planning on making any visits to our film sets in the near future,” he mumbles to Kuroo, who’s standing next to him and ticking off lots of ticky boxes on a very long checklist. It’s Monday, so by right Kuroo should be overseeing his project at Nekomata Studios, but he took the day off, saying that he wanted to make sure that there were no hiccups on the first day of filming at the zoo.

“Oh, who am I to tell the great Oikawa Tooru what to do,” Kuroo replies whimsically. “Look at him, blazing a path of destruction through the places he goes like a perfect storm and leaving a trail of disaster wherever he pleases. We’d have better luck keeping Kageyama on a leash around him instead of the other way round.”

“Are you guys actually friends or not?”

“Of course,” Kuroo nods, which leaves Daichi very confused.

To everyone’s complete and utter bewilderment, Kageyama delivers a flawless performance as usual during his solo scenes in the morning, despite his demeanour whenever the cameras aren’t rolling. He films two takes — not because he made any mistakes, but because he thought that part of the scene could be interpreted in two different ways, and asked Daichi if he could do them both. They’ve fenced up an area of the giant panda enclosure for filming (under the watchful eye of an antsy zookeeper), but already curious onlookers are gathering in the vicinity and muttering to themselves at the sight of Kageyama.

“No pictures please,” Ennoshita deadpans, warding some of them off near the barricades.

“How does he project so much emotional depth brooding on film,” Suga murmurs as he monitors the footage, “when he just looks like your typical cranky kid in real life?”

“Okay, cut,” Daichi yells at the end of the scene. “Great job, Kageyama. We’ll take a fifteen minute break, then I want to see you and Hinata to discuss the next scene. Makeup artists get ready. Ennoshita, help me find out when they can let us move to the next location.”

“You’re seriously managing the set well by yourself, for a first-time director. It’s barely the beginning of the third week of filming,” Kuroo says to him as he gets up from the director’s seat and heads towards Suga to review the scene. “I don’t think I need to come down and supervise anything anymore.”

“Learnt it all from you,” Daichi replies evenly to the joke. “Would it be okay if I fired you, then? We’d cut back a bit on the budget. You know we’re tight on money.”

The next scene — one where Hinata’s character finds Kageyama’s at the panda enclosure — goes rather successfully. Hinata has somehow managed to calm down despite being scared out of his wits by Kageyama that morning. If anything, he seems to have become even more competitive because of Kageyama’s razor-sharp focus and exceptional performance. The dialogue and chemistry between the two is genuine to a fault and requires little polish, save for some technical positioning on Hinata’s part — he keeps forgetting to position himself nicely for the cameras.

After lunch they move to the tiger enclosure to film a monologue featuring Asahi. (Kuroo makes sure Daichi is within earshot as he herds the crew along: “Hurry up guys, every additional second we waste is going to cost us. This filming licence didn’t come cheap. We’re tight on money.”)

Asahi needs to climb onto the roof of a pavillion in the middle of the tiger enclosure, which also houses other big cats in separate sections. They’re a safe distance from the beasts, and the tigers and lions are even separated from the viewing gallery by thick moats, but it’s slightly nerve-wracking all the same. Asahi nonetheless looks determined to do a good job as the makeup artists touch him up. Kinoshita and Narita waste time arguing over what to call the ladder as they prop it up against the roof (“No, it’s called a stepladder, stupid”), and Daichi almost makes them jump out of their skins just by walking past and clearing his throat loudly as they squabble.

In the end Asahi makes it up to the roof _and_ finishes the scene without much incident. He freezes on his lines on the first take, but takes it in his stride and finally gets a good take on his fourth attempt. There may have been some minor mistakes, but the bulk of it conveys the atmosphere Daichi was going for when he sat down and wrote the scene with Takeda months ago. Hinata watches the entire process with his mouth hanging open — mentally taking notes on how to monologue, hopefully.

Finally they decide on the best cut on the seventh take, one whole hour later.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I can get down by myself,” Asahi insists, smiling in what seems like relief now that the lengthy series of takes is over, as Kinoshita and Narita heave the (step)ladder towards the pavillion.

Daichi and Suga review the camerawork. They’ve managed to stick to the filming schedule, so it’s still bright and sunny as the script required. Well, not so bright and sunny, because it got a little cloudy as the afternoon progressed, but that’s nothing some colour editing in post-production couldn’t fix.

“I guess we’re just lucky it didn’t rain on us?” Suga beams. “We’ve got quite a bit of footage from all the takes — it’s not impossible to splice some of it together.”

Daichi replies, squinting at the monitor of the camera, “Yeah, but we’re going to have to pick the later takes. It was too glaring earlier —”

His sentence is interrupted by a heart-stopping crash. All heads on set turn towards the source of it — the collapsed ladder, sitting in a pile together with Asahi’s limbs entwined around its steps. His right leg is pinned beneath one of its sturdy-looking beams and his face is turning white very rapidly.

— In one short, horrifying second, blood rushes to Daichi’s eardrums. Temporarily, the world goes soundless. 

“Oh my god,” somebody exclaims very loudly, a few seconds later. 

It’s Suga who breaks the frozen tableau, getting up abruptly from his foldable chair, almost toppling it over, and rushing to Asahi’s side. His movements galvanise the others into action. Someone calls for a first-aid kit. A few others work together to move the stepladder off Asahi’s still-motionless body. 

Daichi whips out his cellphone and, with a speed and composure that surprises himself, calls for an ambulance.


End file.
